


Morning Cardio

by TheRickestRickthereis



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, No Fandom - Freeform, Short Story, University Life, both are left handed but there's only one left handed desk, needed a place to post
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:41:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23488504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRickestRickthereis/pseuds/TheRickestRickthereis
Summary: Every morning, I race Dirk L. for the only left-handed seat in lecture.
Kudos: 1





	Morning Cardio

Things change when you go to war. You change, in ways that you never expected. One day, I feel that I may look in a mirror and while I’ll recognize myself, I won’t understand that person. I can see the choices they make, but trying to follow the logic behind them is as fruitless as trying to catch soup. The alienation from my own body will slowly, surely kill me, my psyche splintering into a creature fuelled by want and the redness of violence. Already, I can see the creep of that creature. It’s in my choices, in my clothes, under my nails and up my nose. If I could trace it, if I could track it, could I stop it? Even now, I don’t think so. I am losing my humanity in a deadlock over a left-handed desk.

I cannot destroy the desk any more than I can destroy the man with whom I am engaged in this battle with. This is a fight, you understand, fuelled by my own internal furnace. I know I’m taking things too far, but I need that desk more than Dirk L. I don’t know his last name. I only know the initial, because he writes it on his papers with his left hand on the days when I’m sitting to his right, in the seat of a loser. Dirk and I have the same first-year economics class, for seventy-five minutes every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. The classroom is on the fifth floor of a decrepit tower of a university building, one with stairwells so narrow that if you put two students next to each other they could stand hip to hip with no room to manoeuvre on either side. I will run up those flights of filthy marble on all fours like a warthog if that’s what it takes. Dirk and I are the only two left-handed students in class. But I am a winner, and Dirk is not. That seat is mine.

It is October. I get to the bus stop early, not because the bus comes early but because the bus functions on a single truth: if you are late to the stop, the bus runs on time, but if you are on time getting to your stop, then the bus is late. The only way to circumvent all of this is be early. It’s one of the last warm days of October, and you can feel it—some people keep their Crocs and sandals on, reluctant to shed them and huddle into their winter overwear. I have sneakers, built to run, but mostly built to stand in line waiting for textbooks. Not every aspect of my life is about fighting Dirk for the left-handed desk in Elton Hall 506. Yet. Adaption to university life is difficult in ways I didn’t anticipate. The stiff and cold October breeze is the only thing keeping me awake, because I am tired in ways I didn’t know I could be. I feel like my insides are made of glue and my skin is made of pillowcase, like I’m something formless and unstructured that desperately wants to sink to the ground and stay there however I land. But I’m an adult now. An adult, that is going to catch that bus, right there, the one rounding the corner like a lion. Stragglers come up to the stop, falling in behind me, and we line up to get on.

I inhale deeply through my nose and out through my mouth, slowly, gently, like the wind in a cave system. Of course, it’s a Monday. It’s 7:30. I have economics in Elton Hall 506. And today, today will be another day of victory until Dirk L. relinquishes the seat to me, permanently. The bus ride isn’t overly long, but it’s too long to dramatically monologue. Even before this, my inner life was deprived of richness, so I have nothing to even talk about. For so many years, I was apparently a normal person who did normal things, and then Dirk arrived and has turned me into a terrible beast with a preoccupation about the left-handed desk in Elton 506. Even worse, Dirk has made me realize that I very much could have been like this my whole life and was just blind to my own depravity. Stupid Dirk and his unforgivable crimes, it is October and he has already ruined my semester.

It is only when I get off the bus, off the bus and onto the pavement, that my morning changes. When I get off the bus, Dirk is leaving the student dorms. I start to move towards Elton, and so does he. We are abreast of each other, like two sharks cutting through a school of fish. Even though we’re both moving, I can see Dirk no matter how much I don’t want to. He’s as pale as a night terror, moving with the silent grace of a man who grew up with a lot of younger siblings who snitch. Dirk is tall, agile, and broad-shouldered, and I am not. Dirk is a lot of things I’m not. The Tower of Elton looms like a needle against the dawn-soaked October sky. I pick up my pace, and I know Dirk does too. Dry, dead leaves skip over the pavement between me and Elton Hall, _clickity-clickity-click-click-click_ , dry stems and dry tips wheeling over each other. Dirk’s resolve breaks first; He starts running for the doors to Elton, and immediately I run too.

My backpack swings, a counterweight, pulling my momentum off-kilter, so I grab the straps of my backpack and pull them out, pulling my books tight to my back. Dirk throws a furtive look over his shoulder as he rips open the door to Elton, but I’m close enough behind him to stamp on his heels, so he takes off, up the stairs, his long legs making short work of the narrow steps. I throw myself up after him, pushing my stride enough to take the steps two and three at a time. _Go! Go!_

Dirk grabs the heavy wooden bannister, the round one that weaves in tight curves, and pulls himself up like he’s scaling a mountain, but I am behind him, as insistent as a Labrador when given the scent of cheese, I am the hound of your reckoning, Dirk L. I am close enough that if I wanted, I could throw my shoulder into his hip. We round the first flight of stairs. Dirk wheezes, heaves himself forward, and keeps his lead. Our pounding steps echo like a stampede of Rockettes. I push myself, already my thighs burn with so many stupidly narrow steps, and come up next to Dirk, shoulder to ribs, as we pass the second floor. Dirk’s breath is harsh, coming through his perfect gritted teeth, but I don’t have time to focus on Dirk’s strategy. I need to focus on my own. The third floor gets dusty, the stairwell gets dusty, the stairwell is a dirty trip hazard. I suck in air as deep as my lungs will let me, the rasp of my airways sounding like the caw of a bird that should live on a lake clogged with pollution, and I gain the lead on the fourth floor.

I will get that seat if I keep it. Dirk’s steps drop back, half a flight behind me. I know I’ve won, but I can’t quit. I won’t quit. I’m not a quitter.

I force myself forward, ignoring the strain in my legs, the legs that’ll be so powerful from this come finals, and I move, and I move, and I bank around the doorway that opens to the fifth floor.

As I get the door open, Dirk, the vessel of weasels, sees his chance and bolts through it, putting on the speed necessary to cover the last half a flight and the few steps to the door.

Defeat is so bitter.

I have failed.

I run after Dirk, aimlessly, hopelessly. Dirk has the advantage on long-distance runs. I can sprint. I know that I’ve lost the left-handed desk today. Today will be another day confined to the right-handed desk close enough to the left-handed desk. I will reek of failure, and Dirk L. will reek of pride. I slow my steps, down to a walk, past people who are my age but I don’t know, who watch this circus every other day. Dirk has stopped in front of 506. I don’t know what he’s waiting for, maybe waiting for me. Maybe we’ll talk today. We’ve never done that before, only been united over this stupid rush. Our left-handedness.

“Class cancelled today,” says Dirk. His voice is surprisingly quiet.

“Of course,” I answer.

“Nice run,” he says. He gives me a smile, and its a grateful one, because this is a ritual that we are linked in together.

“Thanks,” I answer, feeling like the dusty floor under my feet has slanted towards him. Have we been friends this whole time?

“Want to grab coffee? It’s pretty early and my next class isn’t until like, eleven thirty.”

The floor has slanted and come away from my feet, like I am entering the deep end of a pool. It was there but now it is not. Instead I am afloat, suffused with the possibility, that yes, Dirk could be my friend. I would like to grab coffee with him very much.


End file.
